stagnanTVowels

it apostrophy is...  Statement of Intent: I'm tired of working for my gravy. I'm going to do another thing. I'm going to stop keeping notes and pictures. I'm going to open up my room instead. I'm going to hide my bed in the corner. I'm going to harness this big big power of my look. I'll be evident, I'll be the sad misanthrope last seen standing on the dusty floor below the music. The lights will be grim. They will be cold and unflinching lights, blinking at me like a gut knife in the panic.  This is not a chemistry that will be measured for accuracy. Alternately the beach, it's also a service to the function of memory's use of the plastic arts that are stored within. Experimentation and reaction can be engaged with clear eyes to boot but it's important to respect the enormity of our experience. It's only ever sometimes seen with both of these eyes through polished lens or frail mirror. It can only ever be translated very poorly b...

facing south, come what clouds do once they might The drovers and the porters, a couple dukes and a few round cousins are in shift blues. They're usually at the bar but not today because the long counter is a deck for greasy glasses and pork smelling beer in briny jugs. I got Agatha's for a song and some beads this morning. Betta still made out like invincible. I watch as the blue men in the their short suits reach over one another. The beers free and still they rub each others tufted heads to ward off the bad pints. I’ve had about 8 full days to rub my eyes, yawn, and watch my mother bleed out. This morning I was at Standard Manor and I’ve had The Old Potter’s Tree stuck in my head for hours. I blink back some floppy tears and think, It's only the beer. It could be the beer, I tell myself. Really, it's the really awful beer, I turn and say to Betta. Then Monstre Frango walks by. He steps up and taps the microphone resolutely. He tells the blues, Frango is too...

Facing west, also habit under with... In the middle of it's lot sharing time with some loose gravel sits the apex of all squandered pretenses further squandering itself. In the 20's Agatha Bean's was a white shuttered shack with false lanterns tacked up beside it's front door. Ever since Agatha's lost it's lanterns the cubby brick shack has been painted not-white about as often as any not-white could be had. But it's front door has remained as black as pitch-drizzle. Betta, the old lady that owns the place also owns the filling station a few blocks away. Bud and LU live there when the weather gets sticky. On morning's like that Betta comes into the bar and pours a shot for the dusty tinkers on the rim of their day. Agatha's never closes, meaning that it's been open every day for decades. The place is shaped like a calendar so the mixed blessings that wander in won't get lost. Agatha's is warm and mellow with it's variations on...